five times they held hands (and one time he let go)
by cast-a-vision
Summary: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff could definitely be more than friends, but do they want to be? Oneshot, 5 1 Format, Romanogers, Captasha, Stasha. References to the Avengers, the Winter Soldier, and The Avengers: Age of Ultron. No spoilers, unless you really squint.


**five times they held hands (and one time he let go)**

1.

Natasha strode confidently up to the man who stood on the helicarrier, noting the look of utter confusion which he didn't bother hiding. He appraised her through shockingly blue eyes as she judged him, from his out-of-style clothing to his out-of-style haircut, and despite the temporary shortcomings in his appearance she was impressed — he may have been a man out of time, but obviously seventy years presumed dead while frozen in a block of ice hadn't hurt his body too much. Even while all of these thoughts ran through her head, her expression remained unreadable.

His, however, did not; she could easily tell that he found her attractive by the way his gaze flitted over her outfit and then came to rest on her face; he looked like he had been enchanted, and she allowed herself to be flattered as they shook hands. His grasp was firm, and though his hand enveloped hers she did not tense her fist (her usual reaction) in preparation for an attack; this was simply a meeting between new colleagues. She was good at reading people, and he was an open book (she couldn't deny that she liked what she read). A little voice at the back of her head told her usual mistrustful instincts to kick in, but for some reason they didn't, and it almost didn't worry her.

The handshake and accompanying greeting lasted for an instant longer than it should have, and she broke it off as soon as she noticed, slipping out of his reach.

—

2.

(One Week After the Chitauri Invasion in New York)

Steve Rogers found Natasha Romanoff drinking away her sorrows (assuming they existed, as he wasn't sure if she regretted anything) in a nondescript hovel. A dank beam of light from overhead diffracted through the shot glass she was lifting, causing it to sparkle briefly— Steve noticed that it was the brightest object in the room, which was unpleasantly dark and smelly in a way which turned his insides. Wondering why the Chitauri had destroyed so many beautiful places and yet managed to leave all of the less pleasant points of New York intact, he stepped inside. He shouldered and elbowed his way over to her, ignoring the amorous advances of a few drunk girls, and tapped her shoulder.

"Ms. Romanoff? I think it's time to go."

For a second he wasn't sure that she noticed his presence. Then she waved her hand dismissively.

"I don't wanna."

He sighed, lightly touching her arm, and signaled to the bartender that he would pay the tab.

"All the same, I think you've had enough."

She turned with an exaggerated flourish and gave him a crooked smile.

"Don't think I can hold my liquor?" She slurred, letting him take her hand as he helped her down.

"I don't doubt that you can, but Fury needs to see you."

He hurriedly slapped a few bills on the counter, twisting around awkwardly to do so with his fingers still intertwined in hers as she unsteadily tried to stand, and then pulled her out of the bar and into the night. They made it all the way to his motorcycle before he remembered to ask,

"Do you need help getting to your car?" No doubt her alcohol content was well above legal, but he figured that no one would dare pull her over.

She pulled her hand out of his (wait, he was still holding it?) and made a drunken attempt to fix her hair, which had gotten mussed up for reasons he didn't want to think about. He watched her openly, unable to stop himself from thinking about how cute she looked when she was drunk— wait, stop, they were just coworkers and not even friends, not really, so he couldn't be thinking like that. Finally she answered (he could have sworn she was smirking),

"Walked here. Wanna ride the motorcycle." She clambered onto his motorcycle before he could answer and grabbed the handlebars, making vrooming noises to herself.

"Hey, I'm quite certain that your BAC is too high for you to drive legally," he admonished, biting back a laugh.

"Aw, Cap doesn't wanna get in trouble with the cops? Good boy." She reached over to pat his head and he instinctively flinched back, causing her to tumble off of the motorcycle, miniskirt, stilettos and all. He jumped forward again and caught her, cradling her safely in his arms.

"Easy there! Just let me drive this time, okay?"

Smiling, she gazed up at him and he hastily set her down.

"Whatever you say, handsome."

—

3.

Natasha had the week off, and she was livid about it.

Why was Fury doing this? Just because Barton wanted some down time to spend with Laura didn't mean that she needed a week off, too. She had told Fury that she could work without a partner, but he told her that she should take the time anyway since she never took any "personal days." Leaving Nick staring after her in confusion, she had stormed out of SHIELD and gone for a walk (more like an angry stalk) around the city.

Now that she was sitting on a park bench in the sunshine, hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and dressed in casual jogging clothes in order to blend in as much as possible, she realized why it had made her so angry.

Other than SHIELD, she didn't have anything to do.

No friends to see, movies to watch, favorite restaurants to visit, nothing. Leaning back on the bench, she watched the world go by (resisting the temptation to start tapping her foot). A young couple walked past, and she analyzed them as quickly as she analyzed anyone who came into her line of sight — quickly and methodically. The woman was a petite redhead, and her (judging by the ring) husband wore a dazzling smile that somehow reminded her of Steve. Steve… now there was someone she just didn't understand. He wasn't bland, certainly, but he wasn't nearly as convoluted in character as she was used to, and it made her nervous, because no matter what it was impossible not to like and trust him, and she resented him for being so at ease with his life. When he had days off he probably volunteered at an animal shelter or something — even after seventy years in the ice, he had a spark of — goodness, light, wholesomeness — that she found unpleasantly attractive. Attractive? No, not attractive. She didn't LIKE him.. of course not! Love was for children… not that this was love, so why was it even bothering her, why was she even thinking about him at all, what was wrong with—

"Agent Romanoff!" A breathless voice broke into her reverie, and the eternal wall of ice around her heart melted just a little, but not quite enough for her to notice. She looked up, feeling herself reciprocate the broad grin which greeted her. Steve's arms were crossed over his sweat-dampened shirt as his ribs heaved in and out, blue eyes twinkling as they looked down at her from a slightly flushed face. The ice around her heart melted away completely, and she definitely felt it, but forced herself to ignore it.

"Going for a jog, Cap? Do you ever stop moving around?"

He chuckled and replied,

"I didn't exercise for seventy years, so I need to make up for it."

"How long have you been running for? You look like you just finished a marathon."

He blushed slightly at the comment, although his face was already flushed, and she wondered how closely she must have been scrutinizing his every movement to detect a change that subtle.

"Dunno. What are you doing out here? Fury got sick of you?"

She snorted.

"Seems like it. Hey, I'll join you." She made as if to stand, and he instantly extended a hand. What, did he think this was still the 1940's? Guys don't do that kind of stuff anymore. With a tinge of regret, she realized that he probably hadn't picked up on that yet. Poor guy, for him it had only been months since 1945. She accepted his hand, shocked by the way tingles of warmth shot from her fingertips throughout her whole body. She jerked her hand away as soon as she was on her feet, not missing the look of hurt that flitted across his expression. He would make a terrible spy, she thought bitterly to herself.

On the other hand, she was so good at hiding emotions, she even concealed them from herself.

—

4.

He wasn't sure how it happened, but they became tentative friends, and then partners (on missions, not in any other sense of the word). His soldierlike adherence to commands and precise fighting style complemented her capricious moods and impossibly deadly tactics. They occasionally came to blows over questions of conscience — she acted as if she had none, while his plagued him constantly — but for the most part, their dynamic partnership was efficient, unbeatable, and often enjoyable. He didn't trust her (how could he, when she was so full of deceit that she only marginally trusted herself?) but he couldn't deny that his chest tightened every time he caught a glimpse of her fiery hair or her eyes, which danced with a light only he could see.

They were preparing for their third or fourth mission together, a routine checkup on a person of interest to SHIELD, when he held her hand for the fourth time. They were posing as a high-status couple in order to infiltrate a party being held by the target. Steve knew that it was nothing out of the ordinary, that agents did this all the time as a cover, but he couldn't stop himself from straightening and re-straightening his tie and glaring at his reflection in the mirror before their "date." His image stared back at him, and not for the first time he wondered why his eyes had grown so old while his body remained young and (dare he admit it?) handsome. Shoving his hands in his pockets, then quickly taking them out again because he had to open the door, he headed out of his room to meet Natasha.

Predictably, she took his breath away. She stood waiting for him, arms crossed, wearing a sea green dress that matched her eyes. Steve forced himself to stop staring, jerking his eyes away and stepping out.

"You look… beautiful."

She smiled, not missing a beat.

"And you need to tuck your shirt in. Come on, we have to be in the ballroom in five."

He blushed furiously and fixed his shirt while they headed to the elevator, then jokingly asked,

"Should I fix my fly while I'm at it?"

Without so much as looking at him, she responded,

"Your pants don't have a fly," and then began explaining last minute mission details.

Steve found it difficult to concentrate on what she was saying, mostly because he was asking himself why she had known that off the top of her head. They reached the lobby quickly and made their way to the ballroom, picking up (false) name tags on the way.

Elegant music wafted throughout the room, and Steve was slightly taken aback, not by the high-vaulted ceiling, the marble flooring, or the elaborate paneling of the room itself, but by the sheer number of dignitaries whose faces he recognized without having to see their tags.

"Going unnoticed is going to be a lot more difficult than we anticipated," he muttered.

She rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, especially if you keep ducking and shooting glances at them. You look like a fugitive on the run. Relax, 'Craig.'"

He elbowed her playfully, which caused her to gripe about his lack of dignity.

It took only minutes to locate the man who was supposed to be under supervision. He was perhaps 40, with a balding head upon which only a few determined wisps of limp brown hair remained, clinging to the sides of his head as if they were trying not to fall off but could not hold on for much longer. Natasha quickly armed the bug and closed her fingers around it, signaling to Steve that she was going to go plant it on him.

Steve made small chat with an old lady (whose first order of business was telling him that he looked just like Captain America, at which he groaned inwardly) as he waited for Natasha to finish. Every few moments he snuck a not-so-subtle glance in her direction, watching her shamelessly flirt with the target, trying to get close enough to slip the bug into his pocket unnoticed. Finally, tired of his distracted nods and smiles, the old lady kindly told him to go retrieve his girlfriend, and he threw her a relieved smile as he walked over to Natasha.

Unlike Natasha, Steve couldn't hide his feelings from himself, and he decided right away that he liked the sound of "girlfriend." Not that he thought about her in that way all the time — she was a good partner, and he didn't dare ruin that, so he kept whatever fancies he had to himself. He forced the urge to break into a run at the sight of her leaning in towards her target, telling himself that the Black Widow was going after her prey and his jealous blundering would certainly fail to win him any favors. Instead, he doubled back while she kissed him, right in the middle of the party, and allowed himself to join the ranks of people who made faces of elegantly expressed distaste and turned away. He gave himself a count of ten, breathing slowly, before turning around again and pushing over to her.

"Nat-Daisy. What are you doing?" The hard edge in his tone wasn't an act, but he hoped he could pass it off as one.

"No need to get jealous, Craig, you've been _awfully_ boring tonight as it is." She elegantly turned around, throwing a rueful smile in the direction of the target. The target moved as if to protest, but Steve glared at him dangerously, taking Natasha's hand and leading her away to one of the plush couches lining one wall. He pulled her down to sit next to him, trying to ignore the fact that their legs were touching and she was sitting way, _way_ too close. _Good job, Steve. You made this as un-platonic as possible._

"What was that?" He hissed. She met his eyes, unfazed as ever.

"The mission. Do you have a problem with that? It's done, we can scram and call for extraction."

"Why did you kiss that bast- the target? That wasn't part of the plan!" He was aware, too aware, that he was being ludicrous. A partner, a fellow agent, would simply accept the mission as done and call for extraction. Hounding her for something that wasn't even wrong — that was ridiculous. Her green eyes searched his, and though he couldn't read her expression, he knew that she could read his — and was no doubt picking up on every emotion he was feeling. Why, why, why did she have to be so perceptive?

Finally she responded.

"If I didn't know you better, 'Craig,' I'd say that you were acting jealous right now."

 _Shoot._ Of course she knew that he was. Of course he was acting jealous. How was he going to get out of this one?

"I'll call for extraction. Let's go."

It was only after they both stood up that he realized they were still holding hands. He didn't let go, and she didn't make him, and somehow that more than made up for the mission.

—

5\. (Post The Winter Soldier)

The fifth time they held hands it was on Steve's birthday. Natasha spent as long as she could stand to spend building up cover stories and forming contingencies, setting her return date to the States for the end of June. Her first order of business? Getting Steve a present… and she already knew exactly what it was.

She stood for a second with her hand on the doorknob, wondering if Steve was even in his apartment. She hadn't talked to him in months; their correspondence had been spotty because she kept changing her phone number (of course she memorized his, but wasn't sure if he'd pick up a strange number or not and didn't want to bother him, or so she told herself). Quickly mustering her usual composure, masking everything from the past few months behind layers of well prepared internal defenses, she opened the door.

Steve was brushing his teeth. He jumped, startled, and whipped the brush out of his mouth.

"Nutushuh!" He made as if to walk over and hug her, but quickly changed his mind and ran to the bathroom. She took the sudden moment of emptiness to

a) notice that his apartment really needed to be organized (she set about neatening his kitchen to pass time)

a) acknowledge that he was only wearing boxers and probably just woke up (it was 5 am — oops!)

b) mentally note to herself that she should have knocked and would do so next time

and

c) let all of her guards down, because he made her feel ridiculously safe in a way she never, ever felt.

She ran after him and whacked the bathroom door.

"Hurry up!"

He came out within seconds, running a hand through tousled blond hair, sheepishly grinning at her. They stared at each other for all of two seconds before she gave in and hugged him.

"Happy Birthday! I have your present. Kind of. Pack a bag and come down to my car."

He pulled away and stared at her.

"Wait, what? I haven't seen you in months and now... what's going on?"

She slapped his arm, wondering subconsciously why she was acting so... frivolous, happy, and generally unlike herself.

"Come on, it'll be fun!"

Captain America had no choice but to gladly oblige — she knew he would. Within minutes, he appeared, and they walked down to her Corvette (he had taken custody of it while she was away, though he never drove it).

"Where are we going?" He asked.

"Brooklyn! I rented a really nice hotel room there so you can watch the 4th of July fireworks from your hometown!" She blurted out, daring to glance at him and see his reaction.

"W-what? Y-you can't — why would you — that's so — thanks!" He scratched the back of his neck, the familiar blush highlighting his cheekbones. As they made small talk for the next few hours, mostly talking about Steve's childhood in Brooklyn, she realized how much she had missed him.

(July 4th, 2014)

They sat on the balcony, watching the fireworks pepper the sky. The red, white, and blue bursts of light flashed across Steve's face, reflected in his eyes. He smiled and looked at Natasha.

"Thank you for doing this. Definitely the best birthday present I could have asked for."

He reached over and took her hand. Embracing the usual feeling of warmth that filled her at his touch, she answered,

"But you didn't ask for it."

He looked down at their intertwined fingers, then back at her.

"I guess that's what makes it so special."

She could tell that he was thinking about something other than fireworks by the way his whole demeanor shifted, and for once she accepted that his utter openness was a good thing. She leaned in slightly, without thinking, and he did the same. Their lips met under the twinkling bursts of light, and she swore to herself to never let go of his hand.

But a Black Widow's promise to herself decays as quickly as her poison.

—

+1. (During Age of Ultron)

Steve was making breakfast for himself, and though he should have been concerned with more pressing matters, all he could think about was Natasha's lullaby for the Hulk and wonder when it had turned into the end of them.

He and Natasha were purely platonic.

That's what he told himself, over and over again, bitterly and often accompanied by mental curses. She didn't love him. Why would someone as beautiful, brave, and smart as her care about him? Angered by his own thoughts, he whisked his eggs right out of the mixing bowl. Groaning, he grabbed a towel and sopped them up, resolving to eat toast instead. He tried not to think back to his birthday, because thinking of it — of her — caused his chest to contract painfully, because through some twist of fate they were apart.

She must never have wanted to be with him, he thought, and he must have been reading far too much into things. They were friends — very close friends — but nothing more, nor would they ever be, if he faced it. He didn't think he could love anyone else, not after losing Peggy to Time and Natasha to... to another friend, but he supposed he'd move on eventually. If only he could remember the name of that nurse Natasha told him he should ask out, he would do it, but back then he couldn't have been bothered to take note of such trivial matters, not when he thought he was already in love.

The toast popped, nearly giving him a heart attack, and he went to get a plate.

He hadn't seen Bruce coming, not at all. He would never have guessed that that was who she felt for, who she fell for.

He threw open the cabinet door so violently that it fell off of its hinges. Muttering a few curses, he set about putting it back together and told himself to calm down.

"Steve? Can I come in?" No, not right now, not like this.

"Just a second, I'll get the door." He ground out. (Calm down, Steve.) He took a deep breath, for once managing to mask his emotions, and went to get the door.

"Hey, Romanoff." He smiled down at her — no matter how much she ravaged his heart, she still lifted his spirits.

"Romanoff? I like Nat better, 'Rogers.'" She pushed her way inside, as she had done a hundred times before, and took stock of his kitchen — burnt toast still in the toaster, a cabinet door half off its hinges, and a sopping towel on the counter.

"Everything all right? It looks like you let the Hulk out in here."

(Him again. Steve felt the cords in his neck grow taut as his jaw tensed and he forced himself to relax.)

"Got into a fight with some eggs."

"What, they weren't being righteous and true? Did they betray the American way?"

He laughed, trying to just enjoy being with her while he still could be.

"So what's up?"

She turned on her heel, abandoning her kitchen inspection as soon as he asked.

"I need advice."

His eyebrows climbed into his hairline, joining the larger masses of their golden brethren.

"Always happy to assist you." He hoped it sounded like a joke, supplementing it with a sweeping bow (it helped that he was already in uniform) but in reality he meant it, and loathed himself for meaning it. Why did she have to matter so much to him?

"It's about Bruce."

As soon as the words reached his ears, he knew what was coming, and didn't bother to wait for her explanation. He knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't like giving it, and he certainly wouldn't like hearing it. Instead, he steeled his nerves and answered,

"He's a good guy, and you two have a chance to be happy together. You deserve happiness. Stop waiting and just go for it."

She almost laughed when he finished, but the sound was replaced with words.

"You're a terrible liar, Rogers."

He was starting to hate his last name. Unable to meet her searching gaze, he went to get his cold, burnt toast out of the toaster.

"Good thing I'm always honest, then." And he did mean it, he just felt like vomiting whenever he thought about… them, even though he so badly wanted to be happy for her.

"Steve!" He felt a sudden pressure on his hand. She grabbed his fingers and pulled her towards him.

"Tell me really. Do you think it's a bad idea?"

His emotions threatened to overflow for an instant, but he shut them into a steel cage within his mind and locked it. _Is this how she does it?_ He wondered.

"No. You deserve happiness," he repeated dumbly, tearing his hand from her grasp. He didn't move, holding his shoulders stiffly, glaring down at the toaster until he heard her leave without another word. There was confusion in her slow step, and maybe — just maybe — regret. But he didn't let himself think that, didn't want to assume anything that was untrue. His legs started shaking, and he forced himself to hold still. He had caused enough wreckage on his own heart, and maybe on hers too, which was the last thing he had wanted to do. He had never wanted to hurt her.

The door opened; he could feel her standing in the doorway, still watching him. He would talk to Banner tonight, at Tony's party. It would be easier to get through to him, he decided, and convince him to repair whatever damage Steve had done to Natasha.

His legs were burning with the effort of holding himself up when she finally closed the door. As soon as he heard the click of the lock sliding back into place, he sank to the floor. It was the first time he pulled away instead of the other way around, and as much as he hoped it was the last time, he felt in his gut that it wasn't.


End file.
